


The Partnership Continues

by Ariasune, KeikoAkai



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! - All Media Types, Yu-Gi-Oh! Duel Monsters (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Canon, Canon - Anime, During DOMA arc, Implied Yami Bakura/Marik Ishtar, M/M, Peri-Canon, Post Battle City, Thiefshipping, YGOME20, Yu-Gi-Oh! Mini-Exchange, lots of anger and assholes being assholes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27774412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariasune/pseuds/Ariasune, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeikoAkai/pseuds/KeikoAkai
Summary: Malik pivoted, taking in a deep breath before taking the plunge. He jumped out with his best scowl. “Get the hell ou—!"Nothing in the world could have prepared Malik for the scare he received when the intruder in question was directly facing him. The familiar messy mop of white hair. The pale snow-kissed skin. The dark red-brown eyes that had seen more hardships than anyone could ever imagine.He suddenly looked stricken, the knife dropping uselessly to the ground as he stood transfixed and rooted to the spot.”…B-Bakura…?!“--------------------------------------------While Yuugi and the gang prepare to go to America to visit Pegasus, Bakura has plans of his own. He has a score to settle with Malik.Co-Written with Ariasune! Written for millenniumchainsaw (Rikudera) as part of YGOME20!
Relationships: Thiefshipping - Relationship, Yami Bakura & Marik Ishtar, Yami Bakura/Marik Ishtar
Comments: 3
Kudos: 19
Collections: Yu-Gi-Oh! It's Time to G-G-G-Gift! [Mini-Exchange]





	The Partnership Continues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [millenniumchainsaw (Rikudera)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rikudera/gifts).



> This is largely based off of an RP I wrote with [ariasune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariasune/pseuds/Ariasune) a few years ago. The prompt was essentially to write about what Malik and Bakura were up to during the DOMA arc. We thought Bakura confronting Malik over the end of Battle City was a very fun scene to tackle! 
> 
> This is written for the awesome [millenniumchainsaw (Rikudera)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rikudera/pseuds/millenniumchainsaw) as part of [YGOME2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/YGOME20)! If you like Yu-Gi-Oh fics, consider joining for next year! We hope you enjoy!

Bakura hissed, snarling into the low wind. It was still enough to send sand stinging on his face, hair flickering in the slight breeze and hand held firmly across his face. Egypt was unpleasant in Ryou’s skin— catching and burning at it. He recognized the feeling, but it was still ghastly in his host’s body.

Once he was out of the wind—into the twists and turns of Luxor—he fell gratefully against the door. Peering at the lock, he dug through his pockets, almost dropping a series of picks on the ground. Disgustedly, he peered at his torsion wrench and considered his hook pick before shoving a snake rake back into his pocket. He then hunched down to begin prodding at the pins in the lock.

He snorted, listening to the series of pleasing clicks. It was unbelievable to think of Malik protecting his house with such a paltry lock; it practically fell apart, shear line easily found.

Shoving against the door, he found an internal lock in the way, and rolled his eyes, “Gods, you owe me,” Bakura huffed, his voice a deep rumble of annoyance. He pulled away from the door, glaring at it for a moment. Looked at the hinges, the direction, the—

Dissatisfied, he raised his leg, and gave a swift kick just below the doorknob. He heard the splinter, and shoved out with his leg several more times, sounding a deep thunk with each kick. 

Whatever—he wanted Malik to know he was coming. His hulk of a brother might be a problem, but honestly Rishid owed him too, not that he thought that might stop Rishid snapping him in two to protect Malik, but a pause? Maybe.

Settling his foot back on the ground, he peered at the thin give of the door before darting forward with a forward kick. His heel cracked down violently, and Bakura practically tumbled into the house when the door swung open.

Malik was drinking his usual cup of coffee in the dining room when all hell had broken loose. He had just woken up an hour before and was in pajama pants and a t-shirt. His kohl was freshly applied and the only gold he wore were his signature earrings. 

The cup nearly dropped from his hand when the crash sounded through the house. He got up from his seat, eyes wide as Hayani dates as his thoughts raced.

He quietly moved to press himself against a wall, his survival instincts kicking in. He reached over towards the dish rack beside the kitchen sink, pulling a knife into his hand before exiting the room. 

He heard the loud footsteps begin to move into the house, the sound loud like the pounding of his heartbeat between his ears. As he continued towards the living room, he gripped the knife handle tighter until his knuckles bled into a paler shade of his skin. 

Malik pivoted, taking in a deep breath before taking the plunge. He jumped out with his best scowl. “Get the hell ou—!" 

Nothing in the world could have prepared Malik for the scare he received when the intruder in question was directly facing him. The familiar messy mop of white hair. The pale snow-kissed skin. The dark red-brown eyes that had seen more hardships than anyone could ever imagine. 

He suddenly looked stricken, the knife dropping uselessly to the ground as he stood transfixed and rooted to the spot.

”…B-Bakura…?!“

Malik was not as he remembered him, Bakura observed almost immediately. There was some change in his face, some thinness in his eyelashes, more muscle in the weight of his body, some foreign set to his shoulders that all conspired to flood Bakura with an unsettling roll of doubt. But there was a flash of gold by his ears, and the expression on his face was anything but strange. Familiar, almost soothing with anger, that same ferocity that could draw a moth in by the fire.

Bakura could feel his body settling, tension leeching away and he steeled himself, tensed again.

“Malik,” He drawled, rolling the middle syllable—as usual it clattered through Ryou’s syllables, useless—but the last syllable came out with a pop, a flick of his tongue and jab of sound.

He tried it again for good measure, repeating Malik’s name, hissing through the vowels.

He tried for rage—good, honest anger—Malik had betrayed him, delivered the Rod into the hands of his enemy, and it wasn’t like Bakura had the Millennium Ring about his neck. There was a flare of pain, the faintest offended murmur, and he tried harder, face twisting. Malik had _betrayed_ him, lapped at the Pharaoh’s feet like a _dog_ —

There. _There_ was the anger. 

It was dark, uncomfortable in Bakura’s skin, a choking at his throat. Forced, and insincere, but Bakura ignored it beyond the fact that he was angry enough to lunge across the room, not even kicking the knife away from Malik, before seizing him by the shirt and attempting to drag him close enough to practically bite.

Malik wasn’t an idiot. Bakura wasn’t the type to forgive a deal gone wrong and from how things looked, he probably assumed the worst of him.

“You _bastard_ ,” Bakura growled out, a shiver racing through his body and bubbling from him skin-outwards, “You _fucking_ bastard!”

If Malik felt any fear from Bakura’s actions, he did well not to show it on his face. Instead, his eyes narrowed back at Bakura. "What exactly are you trying to accuse me of, Bakura?” he demanded sharply. It was abundantly clear that Malik didn’t think he had done anything wrong.

Bakura watched Malik’s face, inches from his and saw the dilation of his pupil, the inky black flourishing through the gleaming iris. Could pick out silvery reds and silky blues through his eyes, the way they were bound into a solid, intensely bright color. Slowly, with far too much effort, Bakura licked his lips as he scanned Malik’s face. He found no fear, only a tight expression; the sharp lash of Malik’s voice tingling through Bakura’s blood and he flushed.

He was impressed, shoving Malik back from him, before settling his hands on his own hips, “I’m not accusing you of anything,” — _Yet_ , hummed under his words, a warning— “I’m asking for my payment, maybe some interest.”

Malik quickly jut out his right leg to keep from stumbling when Bakura suddenly shoved him back. His amethyst eyes flashed brightly at the mention of payment and interest.

Inclining his head, Bakura’s angry snarl fought with a toothy grin, “Also, I’d like my Ring back.”

When the Millennium Ring was brought into the conversation, there was a pause. For once, hesitation flickered over Malik’s hardened countenance. 

Studying Malik’s bare neck for a moment, Bakura inclined his head the other way, expression fading back to a resting displeasure—no doubt it had wound up in the Pharaoh’s hands as well, no doubt of that, but still Bakura could feel an eager, wretched hopefulness springing up.

“…I don’t have it,” Malik stated firmly after a period of silence that lasted for far too long. There was a frown forming on his lips that told Bakura that he wasn’t going to like the next words out of his mouth. “I gave it to the Pharaoh.”

Bakura pressed a hand to his forehead gritting his teeth, hope cluttering somewhere in the pit of his stomach, “Of fucking course you did,” He muttered under his breath, “I’m not even—” 

No—he was _furious_.

Combing his fringe away from his face, he gritted his teeth, “Whatever. I need to get the Rod too, and it’s not like he can do anything,” Not with the Eye burning a hole in Bakura’s pocket, at any rate. There was time, methods to be taken, steps involved in the plan that was still thoroughly on track.

Besides, Bakura reminded himself forcibly, he’d half-expected this. He wouldn’t have travelled to Egypt, broke into Malik’s house all for something he could have confirmed with a walk around the corner. Besides, besides, besides—he’d figured the Pharaoh would have forced Malik to hand over both the items. Malik had been watching his back; he couldn’t fault that—

He stopped, hand stilling, ” ‘Gave’?” The anger and disappointment grappled in his skull, the implication searing in a crisscross across his thoughts. Bakura shoved the feeling back, instead snapping his fingers at Malik, “Right—Shirt off.” He was doing his best to control his rage, but the calm was quickly splintering like damp wood. 

Malik remained silent through Bakura’s initial comments. However, the order to remove his shirt had Malik recoiling immediately. His eyes briefly went wide before narrowing ferociously, his own fury seeping into his skin. He tensed up as if trying to protect himself from an attack.

“ _No_!” he hissed, his voice booming through the room. “I only agreed to show you my back if you could manage to defeat my other personality. You lost.” His tone was curt and cold, icy enough to freeze.

There was that anger again, renewed and coiling under hot blood. The following argument—that Bakura hadn’t earnt his reward—was like a slap across the jaw, ringing through Bakura’s bones. He faltered, face falling open in surprise.

Unsteadily, Bakura swallowed, face clearing, “We agreed I’d see your scars in return for putting myself on the line for you—it was payment for my generosity,” Bakura almost laughed, but it was too stilted, just an awkward bark of noise, “That isn’t generosity…”

He shook his head, dismissing the point, “You owe me, I didn’t have to fight on your behalf, you brat,” He swallowed again, expression darkening, “Who won the duel didn’t matter. Hell! I saved your brother too!” Bakura stalked towards Malik then, steps concise and deliberate, “Now take your shirt off, you entitled little shit!”

Bakura had somewhat of a point, even if his perspective was skewed. The guy didn’t have to endanger himself but that was just it. Bakura had _volunteered himself_. It would have been an entirely different story if Malik had gone to him instead. 

Malik’s eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. Even without the Millennium Rod, Malik was still a man not to be trifled with. “ _I’m_ the entitled one?” he growled. “You didn’t have to risk yourself for me! I never even asked you!”

His hands tightened into fists at his sides. “…And since you _failed_ ,” he paused to put emphasis on the word, “My hand was forced and the Pharaoh had me backed into a corner!”

Bakura continued moving forward, closing the space between them, “As if coming to me with my Ring in hand wasn’t a plea for help,” He rolled his eyes, voice taking on a sing-song quality, “Oh help me, Bakura. Turns out I was halfway to fucked-up town—Don’t worry, I’ve got a fucking plan for fucking Ra!”

Bakura skidded to a sharp halt in front of Malik, “Is that what we’re calling it now—forced? You had two Millennium Items on you,” He scoffed, true anger flaring up beneath the forced one. It was scalding in his nerves and he glared up at Malik, teeth showing, “I’m surprised you didn’t fucking lick his feet, whilst you were down on the ground groveling like a _dog_!”

If Malik wasn’t pissed off before, he was now. It wasn’t mere irritation and annoyance that clouded his mind. Anger seeped into his pores, nearly making his toes and fingers curl from the flashes of hot white light he saw dancing behind his eyes.

Bakura’s dog comment was really something. 

The energy in the air seemed to shift. Calm waters had become typhoons. Before either of them had even realized what had happened, Bakura was knocked to the ground in front of him. There was a low sting in his right knuckles along with small dots of blood that sprinkled over his fingers.

Bakura saw the punch—not too soon, he might have ducked then—but not too late either, flinching in response just before Malik’s hand connected with his jaw. The force of it sent Bakura sprawling, and there was the taste of blood shifting in his mouth. He rubbed at his face, sniffing at the coppery scent with a delicate wrinkle of his nose.

“Ow,” He muttered, off-beat and after the point.

Wisely—in his opinion—he waited out Malik’s reaction on the floor. Watching him carefully, Bakura was ready to scramble to his feet and out of range, if Malik’s blood hadn’t cooled even a little from that throw. There was too much heat in those eyes for the fire not to be ready to catch and burn his skin if he was too close.

Malik suddenly gave a hollow laugh, the sound delirious as if drunk from rage. “You’re a fucking idiot!” he spat, staring down at the bastard. There was a burning fire behind his cold, condescending glare. “Do you think I made some type of deal with the Pharaoh behind your back? Is that what you think?!”

A deal behind Bakura’s back—Yes, that was definitely what Bakura thought. It seemed so easy to see it; Malik offering his trump card and items so willingly, smiling as he flashed his back. Something he was unwilling to do for Bakura, who had _earnt_ it. The comparison in Bakura’s mind made his own blood throb. There was Malik’s harsh refusal of Bakura’s modest demand, and an imagined eagerness, salivating for the Pharaoh’s approval.

Another laugh soon followed as if Malik had just finished hearing a funny punchline to a joke. “…Allow me to _enlighten_ you then, Bakura,” Malik continued. The way he said the Bakura’s name was sharp, as if he wanted to cut into the man’s flesh with his words alone. “After you were sent to purgatory, my darker personality battled the Pharaoh in another Shadow Game. He forced the Pharaoh to bet his vessel’s body and soul while he bet mine.”

He flashed a crazed grin, continuing on his tirade. “And here’s the kicker! The Pharaoh couldn’t wait to sacrifice _both_ me and my other personality!” He threw his hands up with a dramatic flair. “If not for my sister _begging_ the Pharaoh to find some way to spare my life, I wouldn’t even be alive right now!” He snorted, grin morphing into an all-out scowl as his anger cracked through the surface. “…I gave him the items because I had no other choice. If the situation were any different, I would have _destroyed_ him!”

The story Malik painted—more like, struck Bakura over the head with, another blow in this argument—was instead one of acquiescence before a jury that was as willing to adjudicate as he was to execute. Bakura could even see himself there—slinking back into the metal to bide his time. Maybe it wasn’t the picture of obedience, but there was obeying, and that still had Bakura scrambling up to his feet angrily.

“You had a choice, you had a damn _choice_!” Bakura hissed, before twisting his head to stare at a nearby bookshelf, his eyes still watching Malik’s arms for an attack.

He swallowed clumsily, hiding it in a sharp snort of disdain. The echo of embarrassed resignation.

Just because he’d been prepared to risk his death—and that was an important distinction, because it had been Malik’s life on the line—for Malik, did not mean Malik should have to do the same in return. Uncertain, he gritted his teeth, staring off into the distance, reconsidering his position in this argument.

“I don’t understand what any of this has to do with our agreement,” Bakura settled on, “Maybe you need to use simpler words about how much you don’t owe me—” He looked about the room, taking in the items he could see laid out, “Over a glass of damn water, if we could. You have any idea how far out in nowhere you live? It’s practically nostalgic for me.”

Malik’s eyes narrowed at Bakura’s words. If there was a choice Malik had in the situation, he clearly didn’t see it at the time.

“ ‘Simpler terms’?” he echoed derisively. “We agreed to different things.” His nearly pinched the bridge of his nose. “You claim that you should see the markings on my back because you risked your life for mine and I said that I’d only agree to it if you had won that duel.”

He crossed his arms. “Given the fact that I had also nearly lost my siblings and my life, I don’t feel entitled to show you my back.” He paused, relenting only slightly. “…The only thing I will acknowledge as wrongdoing was giving the Pharaoh your Ring.”

“It’s not like you left much time to sort out these details,” Bakura scoffed, rolling his eyes harshly. Malik didn’t seem inclined to fetch water, so Bakura skirted past him in search of it himself. His hands darted out, running along walls and brushing at things, fingertips stroking deftly as he made his way deeper into the house. Avoiding Malik, almost, sliding out of reach, eyes to himself.

“You surely owe me something though—there’s every chance I’d never have agreed to your terms,” Bakura would have, but that was honestly beside the point. It was a vague possibility that no longer existed, and was therefore, irrelevant, “Not to mention even you admit you fucked me over with the Ring.”

"That means I deserve some kind of compensation. I definitely feel entitled to something,” Bakura glanced back at Malik, lip curling, “It’s not like there’s anything else you can offer me, is there?”

Malik bristled. Bakura was just as stubborn as he was. If not, even more so than him.

Though, at least Bakura wasn’t as hell bent to see his scars at the moment. That compensation was never coming as far as Malik was concerned. 

Looking away, Bakura looked in every direction other than Malik’s. “Where is your damn kitchen anyway? I’ll start rasping like a fucking snake for a drink.”

Malik abruptly froze. It was such a mundane question amidst the sea of emotional tension. The sharp contrast of moods startled him. Only Bakura was capable of something this asinine. “Wait. So…you break down my door, accuse me of kissing the Pharaoh’s feet, and then ask for a drink like you just stopped in for a pleasant visit?” he spoke the words slowly, as if trying to make sense of what was going through the guy’s mind.

Malik gave up after a few seconds, not pursing more questioning. He shook his head, clearly exasperated by his rude house guest. Nevertheless, he stormed past Bakura and led the way into the kitchen.

Bakura chuckled, arching an eyebrow at Malik, “Isn’t this a pleasant visit, Malik?” Dropping his hand away from the wall, Bakura followed after Malik. Looking about him curiously, hand catching on the walls, Bakura nodded to himself, looking at Malik, “This is nice,” He declared, marching towards the window.

Malik couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the sarcastic pleasantries. It was like Bakura was trying to see how much he could get away with before Malik would snap again.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Bakura eyed outside thoughtfully, as though searching for something buried in the sand. Shrugging, he turned back to the kitchen, inspecting the fridge door with a tilt of his head.

“Your sister’s influence, I take it?” Bakura flicked the corner of a reminder, scrawled over paper, “How is the old ball and chain?” He looked at Malik, smirking brightly, “That’s Rishid and Isis for reference.”

Malik snorted at the nicknames. “Not that you’d really care, but they’re doing fine. Still working at the museum, same as ever…” The clear lack of enthusiasm for the job slipped into his words.

“…And if you’re actually serious about needing a drink, there’s an unopened bottle of water in the fridge.”

Bakura pressed a hand over his heart—or where it might have been if hearts were not kept in the left side of the chest—in mock offence and surprise, “Of _course_ I care.” He held his look of shock for a few moments, before breaking into an easy laugh as he pulled the fridge open.

“Honestly,” He spotted the bottle of water, cracking it open as the fridge shut behind him, “I saved Rishid’s life, so I’m at least interested in that not going to waste, or whatever,” He took several long pulls from the water bottle, the cheap plastic crinkling under the pressure of his grip.

Drawing back with a satisfied grin, he gestured the bottle at Malik, “Thirsty?”

Malik’s eyebrows furrowed, showing how he was at odds at Bakura’s new lighthearted tone. In one minute Bakura was pissed off, and in the next, he was offering to share a drink. Malik held up a dismissive hand. “I’m fine,” he remarked, referring to the water.

Bakura opened his mouth, to push the point, maybe tease Malik, somehow force him to drink the water. But, his petulance caught up to him at Malik’s question. He clipped his mouth closed again, lips thinning as he screwed the lid back onto the bottle of water, plastic rattling in his hand.

“Suit yourself.” Bakura set the water down on a countertop, leaning back against it and folding his arms over his chest.

“…So what exactly do you want me to do?” Malik asked with a raised eyebrow, cutting through the fake pleasantries. “…Help you steal back the Millennium Ring?” It was the obvious suggestion that Bakura would go for.

“Hell yeah, I do want you to do exactly that,” Bakura stated firmly, “But that wouldn’t clear your debt.”

He toyed with the water bottle, “You do owe me—you get that, right?” He squinted at Malik, face twisting angrily, “Even if I didn’t win, Rishid’s still breathing,” He snorted, “Maybe I should go back on that part, you’d probably decide you had owed me something after-all.”

At the mention of Rishid, Malik’s eyes narrowed considerably. He was the lion staring down at an antelope and preparing to go in for the kill. There was anger in his lavender irises along with a spark of contemplation.

Bakura supposed he’d probably get hit again for that; Malik’s regard for Rishid was hard to miss. Hard not to notice when Malik’s darker personality was so hellbent on slitting Rishid’s throat, if Malik wasn’t obvious enough himself. Which, Bakura reflected he was.

Bakura clicked his tongue, gazing back towards the window, “Maybe we should discuss payment options later,” He offered, voice soft.

All of Bakura’s other words had flown out of the window the moment he decided to bring Malik’s brother’s life into the argument. “I have a better suggestion,” Malik hissed. His voice was cold and heated at once, a rather threatening dichotomy. “Don’t bring either of my siblings into this and I might just be more cooperative with your _payment options_.” Those last words were laced with a deadly venom. 

Bakura laughed then, pitch trembling and rolling somewhere in his chest. A high laugh, then, maniacal in tone, but not enraged. It sounded closer to a wounded animal being grabbed by the scruff of the neck; spitting out a mixture of hisses, yowls and bubbling growls. It wound down slowly, fighting to keep its place in his lungs, and was only unwound in a long sound by faltering force.

But die down it did, leaving Bakura’s eyes bright, a touch of saliva—reddened despite the drink of water —at the corner of his mouth.

He pushed away from the counter, slinking close to Malik. Bakura’s body stretched out as he stood before Malik, head tilting up and throat offered in the arrogant jut of his body.

“So we agree your siblings shouldn’t have to pay off your debt?” Bakura grinned, licking at the thinned speck of blood at his lips.

If Malik was intimidated by their sudden close proximity, he didn’t show it on his face. The laugh sparked a flicker of annoyance to his expression equal to the ebbing of flame. Malik was being laughed at like some unsuspecting punchline.

However, instead of glaring at Bakura as he had been doing for the past hour, Malik tried a different tactic. A sudden smirk crossed his lips, eyes sparking with underlying irritation behind a mask of amusement.

Malik didn’t back down from Bakura. Alternatively, he leaned forward just to show that he welcomed Bakura exposing his vulnerable spots. His head tilted lower, words floating out of him like honey silk. ”…You can call it whatever the fuck you want…“ he hummed. "Just don’t bring my siblings into it and I won’t have to find a way to kill you or your little host…” Once he was done speaking, he raised a hand to Bakura’s chest and pushed with just enough pressure to knock the other man off balance.

This was the Malik that Bakura thought he knew. The one that he’d thought had popped out of existence along with his alter-ego. After all, the Malik Bakura had struck a deal with had never struck him as traitorous. Yet—Bakura narrowed his eyes—he couldn’t honestly say he knew Malik that well. It didn’t seem like Malik had stabbed him in the back.

He’d been stabbed somewhere, but probably not the back—frankly, Bakura’s bet was on his chest given the painful quiver that had tightened there. 

But this— _this_ was familiar enough to twang whatever vein had been drawn too tight, leaving a flourish of blood to curl through him. Exciting, that was always how Malik had been. A nasty, pleasing complication—

Malik knocked him off-balance, and he stumbled back, trying to catch himself. This time, when he laughed, there was less splintered glass in the tone, and more eerie delight: “A tooth for a tooth,” He breathed eagerly, scrubbing at the last of the blood on his face with fingers hooked into stiff claws, “That sounds ideal.”

Bakura giggled, the noise bubbling out of him, as he barely glanced at the window, instead swiping the water bottle again. Unscrewing the cap, he tipped his head back, draining the last of the bottle in a long, gasping gulp.

“So—where do we begin?”

**Author's Note:**

> "Hayani dates" are dates that are native to Egypt. If you want to learn more about them, [click here](https://www.hadiklaim.com/date-varieties/hayani)!
> 
> There is a chance I may add onto this fic in the future... 
> 
> We shall see!


End file.
